rocket ships
by Princoxx
Summary: Space AU, starring an errant soldier-turned-bounty hunter and a vain pirate captain. USUK


Galactic Quadrant NGQ3, Stardate 1776-3

Alfred F. Jones is flying through empty space when he receives a transmission from his agent. After a moment of deliberation, he puts the Eagle on autopilot and grabs a bag of crisps from his junk food stash before propping his legs up above the consoles. He presses 'accept' on the transmitter.

"You've reached the Hero," he says through a mouthful of chips. "What can I do ya for?"

"Alfred! How very good of you to finally answer," a voice dripping with sarcasm fills the cockpit.

"Hey, Yao," Alfred answers, nonchalant, "You know how it is. Busy schedule and all that."

The person on the other end of the line gives a snort. "Oh, yes," he says, voice lilting. "Zero missions in nearly two months. You must have been very busy indeed."

"Hmph. Maybe if you were better at your job, that wouldn't be the case now, would it?" Alfred mutters, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth.

There's a moment of silence and Alfred imagines Yao rubbing his forehead, fighting the headache that dealing with him usually causes. He has to smirk at the thought.

"Look," his agent finally says. "The Lunarian Royalty just put up a wanted ad for a manhunt. They're willing to shell out a lot of credits for this gig. Do you want to hear it or not?"

Alfred swallows, thinking it over. He's running worryingly low on funds. The last time he checked his account, he had about 200 credits to his name. And he's been wandering this side of space for almost three months. He could use a change of scenery.

He grabs a plastic cup of Terran soda and chews on the straw for a bit before taking a huge slurp. "Let's hear it," he finally says.

Yao begins to brief him about the mission but between the purr of the engine and his own loud slurping, Alfred can't really hear him. Yao mentions something about a kidnapping, names some possible suspects, and suggests a couple places to start looking. But all Alfred really cares about is the sum of the reward-which turns out to be a lot. Enough for Alfred to live off of for the rest of his life. Probably enough to buy a remote planet somewhere. Definitely enough to buy his brother's freedom. When Yao asks him for a confirmation, he just gives him the affirmative, signs the digital contract Yao sends over, and promises not to ignore all future calls.

He finishes his soda, staring thoughtfully out into the blankness of space, and makes sure to disconnect the transmitter before heading to bed. He's four hours away from the nearest outpost where he would probably have to spend the last of his credits to replenish his water supply. Might as well do something productive and grab some sleep while he still could.

Alfred dreams. He used to dream about Matthew-the gentle boy with the lilac eyes and soft, curling hair; the younger brother Alfred had abandoned to the pirates. But a far more memorable face now overshadows his brother's horror-filled eyes.

A regal forehead, narrow chin, and eyes like chips of jade. A salacious smirk completes the picture. Alfred stirs in his sleep.

The dream always starts out the same-with Arthur Kirkland standing over him, head tilted, arms crossed, and hips cocked, like the arrogant bastard that he is. He's still in that ridiculous getup, in the style of half Terran-pirate-from-the-four-digits and half galactic knight, wearing a titanium and kevlar plate armour under a velvet frock coat with gold epaulets and a goddamn tricorn. Alfred is pretty sure that's a genuine cutlass sword sheathed at his hip. Alfred wants to laugh at him. But Alfred also wants to see how hard his muscles are under that kevlar.

"Oh my," Kirkland drawls. "And to what do I owe this _pleasure_?" he asks, crowding closer.

Alfred grimaces, hating how his body reacts to Kirkland's heat and voice. Pressed this close together, Alfred can even smell the bastard-something musky and masculine with a hint of the salty tang of the sea. There is no sea water in space, which means the vain bastard probably had perfumes specially made to mimic the scent.

"Why don't we get this over with, huh?" Alfred says, grabbing Kirkland by the hips and pulling him down to his lap, if only to see his thick eyebrows furrow in surprise.

Kirkland quickly regains his composure and haughtily begins to say, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking-" but Alfred interrupts him with a well-placed smack on the lips.

Kirkland stiffens, taken aback. But his surprise is momentary and he soon kisses back with equal fervor. His lips are _so_ soft, Alfred thinks distantly.

His tongue is slick when it slips into Alfred's mouth, pulling a groan from warm, swollen lips. Then Kirkland is guiding Alfred's tongue into his own mouth and Alfred has to shiver with how filthy it feels. He pulls away for a second, trying to calm his racing heart, but Kirkland only follows, biting his bottom lip to reprimand him, before sucking on his tongue. Alfred whimpers, sounding so shamelessly wanton that his skin itches with embarrassment. He pulls away again, turning his head away to suck in gulping breaths, and feels Kirkland brushing his lips against his throat, sucking and biting his way to Alfred's ear.

"Fuck," Alfred whispers, clutching Kirkland's shoulder with trembling hands.

"Do you want to?" Kirkland asks, pulling away with a devious smirk.

"Nngh," Alfred garbles nonsensically.

When Alfred wakes up, he can see the outline of the Class L planet outside his small window. With a disgruntled sigh, he gets up to take the controls and guide the Eagle into a hasty descent. The landing dock is busier than he anticipated and he's forced to wedge the Eagle between two rustbuckets. He prays to whatever god there is that this outpost isn't another pirate haven. The last time he'd made the mistake of stumbling into one, he'd lost his brother and his job. He'd also lost his virginity, but he tries not to think about that.

He pulls on his suit and holsters his phaser, before shouldering his pack and heading out.

The air that greets him upon stepping out is hot and humid. He's drenched in sweat within a minute and deeply regretting the decision to go out in full suit. The bustling harbor is filled with people in differing states of nudity, carrying crates and heavy sacks, and they look at him askance when he passes by.

Looking up, he sees great green canopies shading the harbor from the sun and notices how everything seems to be cast with a greenish hue. Overgrown vines curl around stall posts and luminescent moss marks the edges of the outpost. The dense jungle surrounding the small settlement feels like one living, breathing creature, something great and untamed prowling just beyond the boundary.

Shaking his head, Alfred heads in the direction of the only respectable-looking building in town. The sign outside proclaims it to be a supplier of the 'finest purified water in the planet', and judging by the stream of people coming in and out, Alfred isn't inclined to doubt it. He goes in, brushing past a rugged-looking guy wearing a pleated snakeskin skirt that makes Alfred idly wonder if he'd landed himself in a poacher trading port.

The storekeeper is a paunchy man wearing a ridiculous red wolf pelt draped around his shoulders. Sweat beads the man's brow and Alfred momentarily follows the trail of one as it falls down the man's face to his chin, where it dangles fearlessly before disappearing into the fur. Alfred hastily averts his eyes when he sees the man grin salaciously.

"Could I, ah, get three kegs of water for 200 credits?" Alfred asks, pretending to peruse the display behind the storekeeper's head.

The man tuts, his manicured hands tapping the wood between them. "It's 75 credits for a keg, my dear. Our water is pulled from the underground springs, you see. A lot of trouble to get it from our watering holes and into your pretty little mouth."

"Right. Then I'll take two," Alfred says, knowing the guy was overcharging him on purpose, but uncomfortable enough with his attention to want to leave as soon as possible.

"You will do no such thing," a commanding voice interrupts.

Alfred freezes at the familiar voice and turns his head only when he feels someone brush against his arm.

"Don't try to sell your rancid well water for three times its worth," Kirkland says loftily, glaring at the harassed-looking shopkeeper. He turns to look at Alfred, his green eyes piercing. "And you," he says, a tone of amusement entering his voice. "Would you really pay that much for two measly kegs of water?"

Alfred snorts, crossing his arms. "Of course not. But you just had to come in and ruin the gig, didn't you?" he says, affecting irritation.

Kirkland flashes a smirk his way, before turning back to the shopkeeper, pistol drawn. "Now, my dear fellow, I would like your entire store of ale, if you please, and two dozen kegs of your well water for the road."

The shopkeeper sputters, almost foaming at the mouth. "You can't just-"

"I think you'll find that I just have," Kirkland answers, cocking his gun.

With narrowed eyes, the shopkeeper draws a breath before deftly drawing his own gun-a big one with a fully-loaded rotating feed sprocket. "Please leave. I would hate to have to clean your filthy blood off my fur rugs."

Kirkland licks his lips, and Alfred doesn't know why he's more distracted by that than the automated gun pointed at them both.

Shaking his head in utter disbelief at what he was about to do, Alfred draws his gun, fast as lightning, and shoots the shopkeeper straight in the chest. The man falls with a satisfying thud.

"Oh my," Kirkland says in the ensuing silence. "Did you kill him?"

"Nah," Alfred says, going around the counter and stepping over the prone body. "He's just stunned. For now." As Alfred busies himself emptying the credits from the shopkeeper's register, he sees Kirkland lean out the window and whistle. A second later, the shop is overrun by his men, who waste no time in breaking out all the casks of liquor and barrels of water. "Hey, leave some for me, would you?" he says, raising his voice over the racket.

"No need, love," Kirkland answers, pointing his pistol straight at Alfred's face. "We'll be quite well-stocked. You shan't go thirsty, I assure you."

The last thing Alfred sees is Kirkland's smug smile before everything turns black.

Alfred slowly wakes up to the sound of a humming engine, smooth and easy. There are muffled noises too-the pitter-patter of feet, stilted conversations, and the clank of metal. His eyes fly open when he realizes where he is and he jerks to a sitting position, gaze sweeping across the empty room. Kirkland's bedroom, to be more precise.

There's a persistent throbbing at the back of his head but he ignores it in favor of trying to get up. He stills when he hears the clank of chains and looks down to see his arms encased in honest to god _shackles_. Nice ones with a padded interior to protect his wrists, but still.

"Fuck!" he swears, jumping out of bed with his arms awkwardly extended in front of him. He manages five steps before the shackles, magnetically bound to the bedposts, it seems, drags him back to bed. He falls in an inelegant sprawl, face livid. "That son of a bitch-"

The door opens with a whoosh, and the aforementioned son of a bitch appears at the threshold, looking utterly pleased.

"Oh, good. You're awake," Kirkland says brightly, as if he doesn't have an unwilling captive fettered to his bed.

Alfred grinds his teeth, too angry to speak.

"Now, don't be like that," Kirkland says in a cajoling tone, approaching the bed with measured steps. He's not wearing his customary attire-only a loose tunic, tight-fitting leather pants, and the usual high-heeled boots. He looks downright normal. And yet, Alfred thinks rather wistfully, no less devastatingly handsome.

Kirkland smiles when he sees Alfred giving him a onceover.

"What?" Alfred asks brusquely, tearing his eyes away from Kirkland's legs. Pants that tight have got to be illegal, he inanely thought.

"Aren't you going to ask me why you're trapped to my bed like some pleasure slave?"

Alfred snorts at that. "You're too cheap to ever consider buying sex."

"Well, you aren't wrong," Kirkland replies, sitting down next to Alfred on the bed. "But you know what they say. It's always best with the willing," he adds, leaning in. His neck is so tantalizingly bare and Alfred can't decided whether he wants to wring it or make out with it.

"So that's what I'm here for? For your _pleasure_?" Alfred asks, heart pounding and sounding less offended than he intended. He's equal parts terrified and titillated. Mostly titillated, if he's being honest. But he's still all hard, angry lines, face screwed up into a frown.

Kirkland presses his lips together in a thin line, pulling back. "You're not here because I want to fuck you," he says flatly.

Something like disappointment washes over Alfred, but he's quick to squash it with his rage. "Then what the hell are these for?" he seethes, holding out his arms.

Kirkland's gaze flicks down to his wrists, before taking in his heaving chest and pink flushed face. "They're to keep you from escaping before I could talk to you" he says, thoughtfully brushing his hands over the smooth metal. "Convenient aren't they?"

"Like hell," Alfred mutters, glaring. "What do you want from me?"

"So glad you asked." Kirkland stands over him, so reminiscent of Alfred's recurrent dreams that he has to force himself to look away. "I'm sure you've heard of the kidnapping incident involving one royal Lunarian brat."

"Yeah. And?"

"Well, he happens to be travelling with another noble brat, of the Terran variety," Kirkland says dryly, idly picking his nails.

Frowning, Alfred narrows his eyes. "And you know this how?"

Kirkland snorts, and disdainfully says, "The noble brat turns out to be my idiot brother."

"You told me all your brothers were dead."

"Oh, how I wish," Kirkland says flippantly. "I only ever said they were, ah, out of the picture."

"You never told me you were royalty."

Kirkland shrugs delicately, tunic shifting ever so slightly to reveal unblemished skin. "We aren't really," he says, evasive.

Alfred rolls his eyes. "Lemme guess. You're the youngest son or whatever, so you got no slice of the pie when mummy and daddy died, and that's why you're out here, sailing across space, looting isolated outposts and kidnapping errant hunters like me, to eke out a living. But now that your brother is on the pointy end of my gun, you want to what? Save him from absolute doom and hope to get back into their good graces? Capture the moon prince with my help and take the reward for yourself so you can buy and live off some uninhabited planet somewhere? What?"

Arthur stares at him for a moment before finally nodding slowly. "You've hit every nail on the head. Well done."

Alfred peers at his face for a long moment and wonderingly says, "So you honestly didn't hunt me down and shackle me to your bed just to have your wicked way with me?"

Arthur stares back at him, thoughtfully. "The thought may have crossed my mind," he concedes. "So will you help me?"

"Maybe if you untie me," Alfred responds, willfully ignoring the warmth blossoming in his cheeks.

"You're no fun at all," Kirkland says, his customary smirk firmly in place.

When Alfred finally gets his arms free of those blasted shackles, the first thing he does is punch Kirkland in the face. Or, he tries to anyway. But Kirkland is even quicker, evading his arm with a flourish and a short burst of laughter. "Ah, I've almost forgotten how feisty you were," he says fondly, safely ten steps away and twirling a keychain on his index finger rather showily.

"Is that my-" Alfred starts, staring furiously at Kirkland's hand. Those were _his_ keys and _his_ credit chip that Kirkland had just nicked. "You _fucker_ ," he says with feeling. His eyes narrow further when another thought occurs to him. "You better not have left my baby on that rat-infested dock."

Kirkland crosses his arms, looking offended. "You honestly think I'd leave a prize like that at the hands of those uncouth savages? They probably wouldn't know what to do with her. She's a bit old, true, but I wager she'd fetch a nice sum at the Junkyard." His eyes glint as he speaks, gauging Alfred's reaction. "And if she doesn't, well, I could always have my engineers tear her apart for spare parts."

"You wouldn't," Alfred says, shock making his throat tight.

"I would," Kirkland replies steadily. "If you don't stick to our agreement. We get the royal brats, deliver them _safely_ to their respective planets, fetch the reward, and _then_ you can have your _baby_ back."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" Alfred asks, wary. "You don't exactly have a good track record with keeping promises."

Kirkland prickles at the jab, fist tightening around the keys. "I assure you, I _always_ keep my promises," he gravely answers.

After a moment of terse silence, Alfred nods. "Fine," he bites out. "Fine. I'll play along. But as soon as this is over, we're done."

Kirkland bites his bottom lip, considering, before nodding his agreement. For a moment, Alfred imagines he looks pained. "As you wish," Kirkland says softly.


End file.
